


A Partial Fantasy

by fierybeams



Category: Glee
Genre: Gen Work, Masturbation, Other, Queer Gen, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 10:46:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2306894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fierybeams/pseuds/fierybeams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Masturbation fic set during episode 5x16 "Tested."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Partial Fantasy

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings** for reference to canonical assault and the events of 5x15 "Bash," and for an emotionally frantic Kurt having some mildly negative thoughts about porn stars and his fiancé.

By the time Kurt gets home, feet aching from a brisk run in shoes not built for such ventures, he’s nearly in tears, chest heaving up and down from the mingled exertion of the unplanned exercise and the mental effort of keeping himself  _contained_. 

He notes with a grateful sigh that Rachel is out for the evening, and rushes limp-legged toward his room, curtain swinging forcefully shut behind him. He kicks his shoes off, angrily tosses his phone onto the nightstand, and sits down, grounding himself as he feels his mattress give beneath him. He breathes. In, then out, rapidfire suck-ins of breath growing more and more measured as his heart rate slows and the sweat beaded beneath his hairline cools. 

Kurt allows a tear (just one) to drip neatly down his face, immediately accompanied by a relief so profound that the desire to get any messier fades completely. He twists his back just enough to catch a glimpse of himself in the long mirror to his side, back broad and face fragile. 

He turns to face it completely, scrutinizing every curve and dip on his person as though with enough effort he’ll be able to locate the specific one that had sent his fiancé running scared into the digital arms of a  _porn website_  night after night for the past week.  _FratBoiPhysicals.com_ , he remembers, the specificity of it even worse, each recounted syllable like a punch to the skull, images of men (probably straight, he notes bitterly) muscled and waxed to silicone perfection, dead-eyed and vacuous and yet still somehow more desirable than Kurt.

It feels like a punishment, going suddenly untouched and unwanted just as soon as he’s finally found himself capable of appreciating the changing stretches of his own body; he knows he looks good, or  _better_ , at least, sees that truth reflected back at him in the gleamingly covetous gazes of so many of those starved NYADA boys, their eyes heavy-lidded and voices suggestively charged in just the way Kurt had watched others direct themselves toward Blaine, once. Now it happens to him and he always thought he’d delight in that but mostly he can’t feel anything at all, not when the only person who can see all that suggestiveness through for him shies away from his touch and avoids even looking at him, no matter how scantily clad or desperate or ravenous for attention he is, no matter how coyly he stretches his legs or chews his lip or juts his hips out. 

It’s only been a week and Kurt has told himself it means nothing; dry spells happen, Blaine can be uninterested, it’s  _allowed_ , but Blaine hasn’t been resisting, not entirely. He’s been substituting,  _replacing_. Replacing  _Kurt_ , and he knows it’s not the same but he can’t help but remember the way that sentence looked coming out of his reddened lips anyway,  _I was with someone_ , the face-numbing shock of that and how familiar it still feels, especially now, with the mocking smiling faces of half-nude porn stars seared behind his stinging eyes. 

And worse, even, is the barely contained  _ire_  of it all, the way Blaine radiates what feels like anger in his direction when he thinks Kurt can’t see, mouth chewing as he looks lost in some frustrated thought that Kurt feels somehow responsible for, and it’s not fair that Blaine gets to be the angry one, when Kurt’s the one who can still feel bruises healing when he presses hard enough, who runs through sixteen exercise sets a day to drive the echoing sound of brick colliding with bone out of his head, who sprints and squats and swings until he’s replaced every lingering ache in his assaulted body with ones of his own making. 

No, it’s not fair that the confidence and strength he’s been stubbornly building up since waking up drug-foggy in a hospital is this fragile when he’s worked this hard and overcome so much, and maybe Kurt’s being unfair, too, in thinking things, in seeing the worst in a splashy web page that might not be that big a deal at all, but every push-up and twirl of his sai has been gearing him up for a fight and maybe now he’s finally found a target, after nights spent trying and failing to remember the shadowy, alley-dimmed faces of those cowards who’d beat and left him (to die, probably, for all they knew, but Kurt has learned to crawl his way through anything.) 

Heart rate speeding again, Kurt stands up, lets the sudden jolt of the movement bring his thoughts to a halt before it all gets to be too much. His skin feels warm, edgeless anger not subsiding, muscles tense like he’s springing to attack (what, he doesn’t know, he’s alone, but  _something_.) He steps closer to the mirror, considering the outfit he’d pulled together just a few hours before: the mustard yellow of his button-down (Blaine’s favorite color) pulled in tight by the black of his waistcoat, camo pants snug and the silvery glimmer of his scissor brooch strengthening his resolve to keep himself from shattering. 

Kurt pulls his waist coat off, lamenting another sexless night and all that time spent scrubbing, trimming,  _hoping_  put to waste, and he  _had_  tried to initiate, when first arriving, but of course it hadn’t worked, how could it have, when Blaine had apparently gotten off to a laptop screen just before (and doesn’t that just piss Kurt off, that he hadn’t even been given a  _chance,_ even with his yellow and the careful attention drawn to his waist.) 

He’s unbuttoning his top and idly wondering if it’s worth going for a nightly round of sit-ups when he’s struck by a thought, distracted and inspired by the widening glimpses of exposed skin furling open beneath his lithe fingers. 

_He doesn’t need another person to get off._

It’s not itself a novel idea, and obviously he masturbates; had in fact, several times over the past few days, red-faced and desolate, buried deep beneath the covers and trying not to move, lest Rachel hear. Sticky skin, sluggish orgasms, and a vague feeling of shame (that he knows he shouldn’t feel, but there it always is) were all he was rewarded with, and he can’t help but remember, every time, his high school jerk-off sessions, where he’d always felt the imagined gaze of someone on him, sometimes Finn (disgusted, suspicious), other times Karofsky (desirous, scornful), his dad (did Kurt  _matter_ , doing this), his mom, even (could she see him, see what he thought of during? Rationally, Kurt knows the answer is  _no_ , but the question plagues him still.) 

But tonight could be different. He’s alone, for one. And even rattled as he is, staring at the pale swell of his exposed chest, shirt open and hanging loosely around him, he feels...comfortable, at home in his skin, both lighter and sturdier than ever before, long all over with some rounded curves here, then edges sharp as knives there. He places his palm against the flat plane of his stomach, pointing a finger and trailing it softly up the hard line of his torso. Goosebumps prickle up the higher he gets, and by the time he’s reached a clavicle he can already feel a remorseless buzz throbbing in his groin. 

He feels alight with possibility, hyperaware of all those square inches of skin lying on him, untouched, unconquered (by himself, anyway), and he feels, for the first time, and so suddenly that it’s  _dizzying_ , ready to discover his own body, without cover or shame or the aid of another. He’s light-headed with the promise of this, with the realization that he doesn’t need his fiancé to want him to want  _himself_ , and that feels naughty, debauched, somehow more scandalizing than any of the other sex he’s had in his life. 

Kurt shrugs the button-down off completely, watching it fall to the floor in a crumpled heap and refusing to let himself wince. He looks up, heart in his throat, at the sight of himself halfway unclothed, arms strong, chest puffed out, waist slim and tummy tight. Spinning around, he turns his head over a shoulder to admire his other side, the dips and swells of bone and muscle casting artful shadow across the ivory sweep of his back. And there, resting on the shapely contour of his shoulder blade, is his tattoo,  _It’s got Bette Midler_ , poetic and political in ways no one but Kurt ever seems to understand, and that’s fine, a secret he shares with himself, exactly like what he’s doing now, face heating with the intense attraction he feels for this familiar-yet-new body in the mirror.

He tears his face away to work at his belt, snapping it off and moving quickly to the zipper of his pants, bending over to pull them off one leg at a time and popping up with a turn of his neck over his shoulder once more, eager to drink in all that newly bared flesh. His eyes skim down his back to the skimpy material of the briefs hugging at his hips, purple leopard print tightly clinging to the bulge of his ass. Kurt has always had a private fondness for this part of him, almost demure in its compactness but round and perky and utterly attention-grabbing when he needs it to be. Like right now. 

Shifting the angle of his body slightly, Kurt spends a few more indulgent moments considering that fat-padded curve before shifting focus to the leg now closest to the mirror, glowingly pale and covered with fine hair. He runs two fingers over the hard muscle of his thigh with a shiver, follicles sensitive. A small smile perks his lips up as he points his toes and watches the curvature of his calf muscle intensify over a delicate ankle. 

Kurt’s smile widens, pleased with himself and with these modest bodily signifiers of everything he’s been through. He may not have the bashing scar he’d hoped for, but he does have  _this_ , this new adapted body, every minor upsurge of sinewy muscle a reminder of his capacity to survive. He brings a hand up to his ass, still soft and springy, and squeezes, feeling sexy, almost dangerous, each and every body part newly weaponized and functional. His grip tightens, and with a soft, moaning intake of breath, he slides his briefs down, slowly, like he’s teasing himself, heart thrumming as he feels the rough drag of the fabric inching downward. 

Once the waistband has been lowered to just beneath the hook of his backside, material bunched up beneath it, he drops his hands, body pulsing as he gapes open-mouthed at the picture he makes, lengthy from neck to toe, skin unblemished in the dim lighting of his lamp, looking like a marble statue: lithe, classical, and immaculately untouchable but for the naughty pop of pulled-down purple hanging obscenely beneath his ass. 

His hand runs up a thigh and past the crinkled fold of purple fabric, grasping a handful of his right cheek and pushing it up before releasing again, giggling as it naturally falls back down with a jiggling series of small bounces. This, the graceless quiver of excess fat, would have horrified him once, but it’s different now, hot and human, and he appreciates the fleshy swell of this just as much as the firmness of the thighs beneath it. 

Kurt tugs the briefs down to his ankles, kicking them off and turning to face his front, chest laboring up and down. He fixates on his cock, hard already from Kurt’s self-strip-tease and the pent-up frustrations of the past week. It’s slim and pink all over and reddened at the tip, and Kurt feels hungry looking at it, in a way that surprises him, delirious with lust and wishing he could pull his reflection out of the mirror before him and drop to his knees to eat him whole. 

He runs his hands up and down his hair-stubbly chest, tugging at his pebble-hard nipples as he stares at that erect cock he scarcely even recognizes as his in the unfamiliar charge of whatever it is that’s currently happening, the eroticizing and re-contextualization of his own nude form, which has so often been an obstacle for him, something to hide, to clean, to scrutinize and resent, never to  _enjoy,_ not alone, not without the distraction of a more appealing figure to rest on top of him. 

As Kurt’s breathing grows heavier, he wonders which forms this body takes in the minds of others, wonders how it compares to Blaine’s “Real College Studs” (it’s inadequate, Kurt knows, or he wouldn’t need to wonder at all), how it’s reconfigured and imagined by the desiring gazes of all those boys who suddenly want him, what they see when their eyes linger, warm on Kurt’s skin -- do they fixate on the firmness of his muscles, the razor-edge line of his jaw; or on that soft mound of his ass, the delicate in-curve of his waist? What do they imagine, what do they  _want_ , is Kurt to them what Blaine’s porn stars are to him, and what would that mean, if it were true; more importantly, does that matter, now, with Kurt’s fingers sending bursts of flaring pleasure from the stiffened nubs of his nipples down to his groin? 

_No_ , he thinks firmly,  _no it doesn’t_ , they don’t matter, none of them, not tonight, or at least not for this next small stretch of time, when he needs so desperately to tap into that self-preservative instinct that has kept him standing these past few weeks. 

What do they know, any of them, about Kurt’s body, his desires, the secrets stowed away in all those nooks and crannies that even he has yet to fully stare dead in the face? How can they feign to form an idea when the apertures and protrusions of his own form remain elusive even to him? He’s hot, nipples sparking, with lust and anger, confusion and desire, fear and uncertainty, and someone, somewhere thinks they  _know_ , or thinks they can guess.  _Blaine_  thinks he knows, thinks he can shut Kurt out, thinks him boring, maybe, less-than, sees possibility in digitally pixellated body parts that he doesn’t see in Kurt. 

_You don’t know shit_ , Kurt thinks, and he’s not sure who he’s talking to, or what he’s talking  _about_ , but he feels a fire-hot surge of renewed purpose crackle over and within, gives his aching nipples two final tweaks before he drops a hand to his cock, wraps it around the shaft, dry, watching in the mirror like it’s happening to someone else but feeling the enveloping ecstasy more intensely, more  _freely_ , than maybe ever before. 

He’s moaning, so loudly and gutturally he shocks himself a little, hand working up and down but it’s too dry and too limited to just one zone and he needs more, now,  _everything_. He pulls his hand away with a whiny gasp, drags the mirror closer to the edge of his mattress and fumbles frantically for his lube and, god, something  _else_ , something long, thick, black, and made of silicone that Santana had bought him as a gag gift back when he’d still been single, eyes fiendish and mouth wry, and Kurt had felt angry, then, too, spitting “ _I’m never going to use this_ ” at her, tongue venomous, and there’s something liberating in now realizing that that had been a lie before he’d even known it.

It wiggles slightly in his hand, large (but not excessively so, and Kurt imagines that’s one of those veiled ways in which Santana deploys kindness amidst all that icy fire.) He only stares at it for a few moments before he’s coating it in lubricant, dropping the bottle to wipe the excess on his twitching cock, spine straightening and throat clamping when he gives himself a series of firm strokes with a blessedly slippery fist. 

Resting an elbow down on the soft mattress beneath him, Kurt bends over it, dildo in one hand as he awkwardly turns his head to peek into the mirror, legs spread and ass upturned. He raises his arm from off of the bed, carefully balancing in place, eyes fixed on the obscenity of his sprawled reflection. With a rattling hitch of breath and and a backwards twist of his arm, Kurt’s spreading himself open, splaying his cheeks apart with the pull of a hand and staring almost fearfully as the mirror reveals to him the coral-hued skin between his crack. Gasping, he trails a lube-coated finger down over his hole, the furrowed feel of the skin and hairs against his fingertip somehow even more pleasurable than the accompanying wet pressure on that sensitive dent. He drops his head and lets his eyes flutter closed, not, for once, in order to mentally check out, but instead to more fully surrender to the sensations shooting from his ass and up his spine. 

He’s never been able to  _feel_  himself like this, shamelessly and with only self-discovering pleasure as a telos, and as he feels his rim open up beneath his fumbling touches, a world of potentiality opens with it. He’s unfettered, intimate (and he never thought that was something that could be felt whilst alone), the tender skin of his flexing entrance like a secret unveiled to him at last. It’s silly, maybe, but he’s spent so much time distanced from these innermost realities of his own body, touching himself only in shut-eyed shame and seeing himself only through the unreadable gazes of others, that he feels indelibly changed in this moment. 

With a deep exhale, he brings the toy over and behind him, opening his eyes and craning his neck around once more to watch as the thick pliable black of it trembles toward and between the rosy white of his ass cheeks. He pushes it closer until he can feel the slick fat tip of it flush against his hole, quivering beneath it, the massy circumference bringing unwavering pressure that feels inevitable, now, and a part of him must have always known, must have kept and cleaned the damn thing for a reason, must have wanted this all along, bent over with no one to see or know. 

He moans, overwhelmed, skin tight all over, asshole sucking against this object pressed against it, and Kurt feels  _hungry_ , insatiable, any final vestiges of shame vanishing with a hot interior pop. Arching his back, he pushes  _in_ , feels his own muscles back there resist for just a second until they melt into cooperative compliance, and he wails, grateful, because there’s that feeling again,  _intimacy_ , the newfound sensation of working  _with_  his body rather than against it. Tears prickle behind his eyes as the girthy head slides in, feeling inordinately hefty now that it’s inside him, the white-hot burn frizzling up from his rim to what feels like every nerve ending on his person. 

Kurt pushes in further with a choked gasp, dropping his head and closing his eyes again, the relentless  _fill_  of this for once feeling like it’s  _adding_  to him, making him  _more_ , not an intrusion to be embarrassedly taken and enjoyed in nauseous hot-faced guilt. “ _Fuck_ ,” he moans aloud, the slowly inching stretch of the toy’s insertion searingly gratifying, thighs spreading and cock pounding harder the more Kurt takes. Rhythmic moans escape from his mouth, involuntary at first until Kurt realizes how much he loves the throaty sex-hot sound of them and makes them louder, the desperate loud pleading noises in tandem with the quiet squelch of the dildo sliding up his ass.

Too turned on and eager to hold this difficult position for much longer, Kurt moves his hands, dropping them onto the bed and relishing the scream of relief as he sags forward onto its supporting surface. He looks back into the mirror, grunting at the sight of the toy’s black base sticking out between his cheeks, about an inch of its shaft also still protruding (but Kurt can fix that in a moment.)

Kurt stands up, turning to face the mirror, gasping when the dildo shifts inside of him, sliding out a fraction, and before it can move anymore he’s sitting down onto the mattress, slowly sinking and letting those remaining exteriorized centimeters plunge into him completely. He watches himself descend, lips parted and cheeks flaming, long thick-thin legs bending, torso sweating, purpling cock moving with him until he’s fully seated, exhaling loudly. 

He squirms around the massive-feeling object inside him, feeling more stuffed and gorged than he’d have ever even imagined possible, loving the persistent stillness of it, the fact that it won’t thrust or impose itself, existing only to give Kurt what he needs, to make him feel split but selfish and focused solely on the pleasure he can take, take,  _take_ , not give. Kurt clenches around it, watching the muscles all over his body twitch, amazed that he got this to fit, marveling all over again at these powerful capacities of his multi-functioning body. 

Kurt rolls his hips, lets the toy move around against his walls as he watches the tremor of his cock and the subtle undulations of his torso and tapered-in waist in the mirror, and fuck, he’s  _hot_ , allows himself to think that, bringing a hand up to his nipple and squeaking as he rubs, and maybe this is all he needs, ever, himself and thick synthetics and a mirror to get himself off. 

_I’m still here_ , he thinks, absurdly, both desired and not desired, objectified and erased, and it’s fine, this is what matters, the private bouncing of his hips around a dildo that knows him better than anyone precisely by not feigning to know him at all. He moves his wet hand around his dick, finally, hissing and throwing his head back at the simultaneous relief and spine-tingling built-up pressure it sends coursing through him, palm moving up, down, down, up, the angle of the toy inside him hitting differently as he leans back to move more efficiently, hand and hips whirring, orgasm building in his stuffed ass and his shifting balls.

He brings his head back down, eyes fluttering open to watch himself, and he’s so, so close, legs spread, back curved, chest laboring, fucked-out and open and still emitting noises so unembarrassed he feels higher and higher thrills at the persistent sounds of them. Kurt pushes down, ass driven hard into the soft-firm top of the mattress, muscles squeezing tight, tight,  _tight_ , profound focus fixing on that thick hardness taxing him from the inside, and with firm twisting strokes around his cock, and a rough final clamping bounce, Kurt’s coming, watching his body convulse and loosen as as white spurts of cum jet out and up onto his belly, down onto his hips and thighs, and once it’s passed and he’s come to he hears himself chanting  _Kurt, Kurt, Kurt_  beneath his breath, face wet and nose running. 

He flops backward onto the bed with an exhausted, ecstatic groan, back flat against the sheets, wet all over with lube and cum and still relishing the stretch of the toy deep inside.  _Everything’s coming up Hummel_ , he thinks, mentally babbling in the spiking high of his orgasm, giggling ridiculously at how light and full and debauched he feels. He’s in giddy disbelief that he  _managed_  this, that he refused to let his night go wasted despite rejection, that he jerked off in front of a mirror with that godforsaken dildo up his ass and felt no shame at all.  _Feels_  no shame at all, even now, with his limbs burning and the visual and physical evidence of what just happened lying open around him. 

Kurt feels deflowered, but armored, somehow, in being awakened to something different than the sex he’s shared with anyone else, something  _better_ , almost, in its own way. Let them fantasize, let them speculate, let them ignore him in favor of both those things.  _They don’t matter_ , he repeats to himself, none of them, at least not always, at least not right now. In this moment, Kurt wants himself and so he’s free.

After a few blissful moments spent savoring everything unearthed, tapped into, awoken tonight, he pulls himself up with a groan, reaching for his phone where he’d tossed it onto the nightstand and delighting at the comfortable way the toy moves within him. He wipes his hand on his comforter and looks into the lit-up screen of his phone, noticing with an annoyed flare that there’s a text from Blaine.

_To Kurt (8:03 PM)_ : See you tomorrow after your shift at the diner. 

“No you won’t,” Kurt says out loud, shutting off his phone without response and tossing it back onto the nightstand. He cackles, wicked and petty, clenching down around the dildo with embittered resolve.

And if the sudden crumpled twist in his chest in any way indicates despair, Kurt entirely ignores it. 


End file.
